A Donna of My Own Making

"Very well, Miss Rossi. One more thing—should the documents your mother left be put into effect?"

When my mother was gravely ill, she quietly told me she had arranged an escape route for me.

Perhaps even then, she had foreseen today.

"Put them into effect."

"Understood. Seventy-two percent of your family assets will be transferred to your name within three days."

I hung up the phone, my chest heavy, as if stuffed with a wet sponge. Half-awake, half-dreaming, I recalled the year my mother died.

Father had cried until he vomited blood. He said that after being injured in that shootout, he accidentally took hallucinogens and ended up in bed with a prostitute. He claimed she ran off before he woke, and he didn't know she had a daughter. He certainly didn't imagine that the child would find her mother's hospital room and beg for a way out.

My mother had just undergone major surgery. The shock alone caused her to hemorrhage—she died from the stress. I had returned home excitedly, holding flowers to celebrate her discharge. Instead, I found only a coffin.

I had gone completely mad that day.

It was Riccardo who healed me, again and again. "Lia, your mother is in heaven. She would never want to see you like this."

His words had been my lifeline.

Looking back now, I realize it was all part of the scheme from the start.

My phone kept buzzing, shaking me awake. Anonymous photos appeared, one after another.

In each, Riccardo held Lina in his arms, kissing her passionately while his friends cheered behind them. They were playing cards in a casino. Lina, dressed in a bunny costume, straddled his lap.

"Lia, you know why he always likes to take you from behind? Because he said it himself. From the front, you're only seventy percent like me. From the back… ninety percent. You're a pathetic substitute."

I think I knew who the mysterious sender was. Lina's disgusting words churned my stomach, and I bent over the sink, retching.

Riccardo, just arriving home, heard me and rushed in.

"Lia! Take deep breaths. Why is it so bad? You didn't eat last night, did you?"

I nodded weakly.

He helped me back onto the bed, rubbing my head. "Wait here."

Soon, he returned with a bowl of seafood soup.

"Drink a little, hmm?" He blew on a spoonful and held it toward me, eyes bright with expectation.

It was the same dish he had once prepared for me, the one he knew I would always drink a few spoonfuls of.

Seeing my indifference, he was uncharacteristically at a loss.

A surge of irritation rose in me. Both he and my father—after everything they had done to hurt me—still acted like they were indulging me, like they were sacrificing for me!

"Riccardo," I said suddenly, "tell me… is there something you've been hiding from me?"